


Strange, and Charmed

by Camellia Cook (thekurosakiconundrum)



Category: Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Academy Era, Character Study, Light BDSM, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 03:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14535423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekurosakiconundrum/pseuds/Camellia%20Cook
Summary: The Doctor dreams, and in her dreams, she remembers what it was like to be young and stupidly, deliriously, utterly in love. She remembers what it was like when she and Koschei were still discovering each other, finding out that all their strange, broken edges fit together perfectly.





	Strange, and Charmed

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This story contains some biting, a goodly amount of breathplay, and a great deal of lovestruck poetical rhapsodizing by and about our protagonists.
> 
> It could also be construed as mild underage--I was aiming for a distinctly teenage feeling.
> 
> Also, I rather forgot about it, so for purposes of this story, suppose that a Time Lord's respiratory bypass only kicks in when they voluntarily choose to activate it or are about to pass out. That's why it isn't involved here.

When the Doctor dreams, it’s almost always nightmares or nonsense. Fire and Daleks and random people she saw once on Eridani III, flowers and stardust and flashes of faces that she knows but can’t quite recall. There are snippets of languages she doesn’t speak, there is the consuming, feverish wrongness of the worst kind of paradox, and there are always, always corridors. She runs in her dreams, too, of course—always from, never to, and often she forgets why she is running but knows she cannot stop. 

She dreams she is Lot’s wife; she dreams she is a shark. She dreams she is a never-were, becoming without being, screaming her hate into the void forever. She dreams she is a giantess, or the snake wrapped around the edges of the universe. She dreams she is a nebula, giving birth to stars—this is a new dream, and she doesn’t know what it portends. 

She dreams she is a child, and she knows that something terrible is coming. She is too young to speak, and her parents mistake her psychic distress for hunger or cold and she screams and screams and screams her impotent childish warning, knowing that her failure to communicate will mean their deaths. This is an old dream, one so old it just might be true. She could have known, somewhere deep inside, even then. Stranger things have happened to Time Lords.

But every once in a long while, the Doctor’s mind will decide to reward itself, or perhaps the TARDIS gives her a little psychic nudge. Every once in a long while, she indulges herself in the pastime of the very old and dreams of simpler times. Every once in a long while, her sleeping self turns and looks over her shoulder, despite her fear and despite herself. She casts her gaze backwards, down her long and winding path, through veils and over borders, to see some impossibly long-ago moment, preserved golden and sap-sticky in the amber of memory. Every once in a long while, the Doctor remembers.

 

* * *

 

She knows she is dreaming, in the TARDIS, in her bed, parked in London, sometime in the spring of twenty-eighteen. She knows that she is remembering, but she also knows that she is the boy known as Theta Sigma, half-grown and kneeling on the floor of the private study that was Koschei’s reward for coming first in applied maths the year before. The carpet is rough, even through her school robes.

In the dream, Theta’s blood is hot and singing in his veins, molten and syrupy like a cocktail she will have on Yrgethop a thousand years or so after this moment, one that will absolutely knock her on her arse. He is dazed and nearly dizzy, his entire being focused on his task and yet too far gone to focus on much of anything. She recognizes the moment immediately and smiles—in her bed, not in the dream, since it would be very difficult for her to smile in the dream. She is, after all, currently engaged in sucking Koschei’s cock. 

She opens her eyes and her hearts flood with feeling as she sweeps them up his body to look upon that well-loved face. He is just as she remembers—this is obvious and uninformative, since this is her memory, but that doesn’t make it any less affecting—with his dark, striking brows and his long eyelashes, with the very first of his succession of rubbish beards (especially rubbish for its patchy newness) and that perpetually pouting mouth he only ever had the one time, swollen red with kissing.

She is trembling, and she doesn’t remember if it’s Theta’s sudden rush of sweet, aching emotion that feels like it might tear its way out of his chest or only hers. It must be half his, at least—she hasn’t felt anything this pure and incandescent in centuries. She thinks that she might burn up with it, too old and fragile to withstand this kind of raw power. Age doesn’t lessen one’s capacity for love, but there is a way of loving that is only available to the very young. Her hearts break again to think that she had almost forgotten how it felt, and she is suddenly, overwhelmingly glad that she hasn’t.

In the dream, there on the floor, Koschei’s hand cards through her hair—Theta Sigma’s soft, honey-blond hair, she misses that hair, it was good hair—and, encouraged, they redouble their efforts, tilting their head and swallowing him down. Koschei curses and his hand clenches reflexively in Theta’s hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. They cry out at that, her and Theta, mouthful-muffled but loud, shockingly loud, the sound of Koschei’s ragged voice and the pain of his hand in their hair hitting them both like a one-two punch of heat straight to their core.

“Sorry,” Koschei mutters as he smooths Theta’s hair back down, thinking the sound was a cry of pain. Which it was, of course. Right? Theta frowns, puzzled, and pulls off. 

“Do that again,” he demands, voice rough, lips half-numb. 

Koschei looks confused (also, distracted by Theta’s mouth, which is always gratifying) and pets Theta’s hair again. It’s nice, but not what he wanted.

“No, I meant pull,” Theta explains, cheeks going even pinker, embarrassed to reveal this newfound strangeness. He does not even think of concealing it, though—for one, this is Koschei, and for another, there was something decidedly odd about his reaction, and it is his nature to pick at odd things until he figures them out. He doesn’t think he could test this on his own.

Koschei’s expression turns guarded and unreadable, which Theta doesn’t approve of, but the Doctor, to the extent that she is separate from him, does. She smiles to herself again in anticipation—she knows what he is concealing. They are terrible for each other in so many ways, but in this, the two of them have always fit together so well.

With trembling fingers, he gathers a fistful of Theta’s hair and slowly, slowly twists his wrist to wrap it around his hand. A quivering stillness descends over them, anticipation thickening the air, making it hard to breathe. Each development in their relationship has always felt like shattered pieces slotting back into place, and they are both aware that they might be on the verge of another one, waiting for that _click_ and the feeling of coming home. Koschei’s eyes are on Theta’s, and the intensity in them belies the careful blankness of his expression. 

So slowly, he pulls, gradually increasing the pressure, drawing Theta’s head back by inches until the long line of his throat is bared. It hurts, and Theta makes an incoherent little sound of pleasure, so turned on that his eyes won’t focus. His breathing is shallow, and Koschei leans forward, looming over him, lips parted, watching with eyes that drink him in the way black holes drink in light, the thin blue rings of his irises the only event horizon that separates them.

Koschei tugs suddenly, viciously, yanking his head back, bowing his spine, and Theta whimpers, helpless and more aroused than he’s ever been in his entire short life. The sharp pain sings along the Doctor’s nerves and she feels herself slipping deeper into this dream, deeper into Theta, losing her semi-spectator status. She cannot remain detached in the face of this moment, in the face of her younger self’s overwhelming love and trust and need.

Theta struggles to catch his breath as Koschei lets go and slides down off the couch, half on top of him, straddling his thighs. He takes Theta’s face between his damp-palmed hands and looks at him for a long moment then kisses him fiercely. Theta’s too dazed to put up any resistance as his lover’s tongue invades his mouth with a level of desperation he wasn’t expecting but to which he is deeply sympathetic. Koschei trembles against him, almost shuddering, and Theta marvels at it because they are close enough for him to catch the echoes of what Koschei feels—love, and relief, and awe, all mixed with a desire so deep and dark that he can’t see the bottom. 

Koschei kisses him like he wants to crawl inside him, so hard that it makes his jaw ache, until suddenly he pulls back to bite at Theta’s bottom lip, sweet-sharp and far more daring than the delicate nibbles of previous kisses. It’s hard enough that Theta tastes copper, smearing between them, and he can’t help the needy noise that spills into the kiss because now that this switch has been flipped, he can’t seem to go back. Koschei soothes his bite with a few soft, gentle sweeps of his tongue before he breaks the kiss entirely and presses their foreheads together, both hands in Theta’s hair—not pulling now, just holding on. He takes two shallow, shaky breaths and whispers, “ _Rassilon and Omega_ , Thete, what you _do_ to me. You’re so fucking perfect; I can’t…”

His voice is thick and tight like he might be on the verge of tears. Moved but clueless, Theta pulls him into a closer embrace, stroking the back of his hair, pushing love and support into the trailing edges of their partial psychic apposition as he whispers, “Can’t what?”

Koschei draws back enough to look into his eyes. His own are dark, intense but unreadable. Shadowed with things that Theta doesn’t have words for, things that send an instinctual shiver up his spine, and he knows he shouldn’t like that as much as he does.

Koschei whispers, “Can’t believe it; can’t believe _you._ I’ve wanted to do that for ages. I’ve wanted to do a lot of things—the thought that you might want them, too… ”

His voice is hoarse, the tone landing somewhere between grateful, abashed and self-satisfied in a way only he can pull off. He swallows and asks, “Do you like when I hurt you, Thete?”

The words strike against something deep inside Theta that sends hot, prickly sparks of lust tingling out to his skin, but he still does his best to consider the answer carefully. This is important to Koschei, and though it hadn’t fully occurred to him before just now, he thinks it might be important to him too. And of course, anything involving them is important to him, so he gives the question all the thought it deserves.

“…Not always,” he answers, after a minute. “You can be a real dick sometimes—I hate when you insult me, or when you get jealous like you don’t trust me. But physically? Like this? When we’re…like this? Yes. Yes, I think I like it. There are limits, I’m sure, but yes.”

“ _Why?_ ”

That one, Theta doesn’t have an answer for. He shrugs. “Dunno. Why does anyone like anything? Why do _you_ like it?”

Koschei hesitates, and his manner or the edge of some thought makes it clear that it isn’t because he doesn’t have an answer, but because he isn’t sure if Theta will like the one he does have. 

“I like… the reaction. I like knowing that I can, that _I_ can. That your pain is mine, the same way your pleasure is mine. The way you give yourself up to me—“ He breaks off, sighing dreamily. “I love that. You make me so greedy, my dear. I want to possess all of you, every last atom, every last word. I want to hold you in my hands, and know that I could break you as easily as I can make you come. I want to own your every sigh of pleasure, and I want your whimpers and tears of pain for mine as well.”

Theta stares up at him, open-mouthed. That’s really kind of fucked up, and he shouldn’t like hearing it it as much as he does, but Other, Koschei can turn a phrase when he wants to. He swallows hard, and starts to reply without knowing what he intends to say. “Oh, Koschei, you do. You really, really do. I’m already yours, body, soul, and time. I’m so yours that it scares me sometimes.”

His lover smiles briefly at that, then looks away, off to one side and down. “Likewise. You have so much power over me—sometimes I think that you make my hearts beat.  I’m helpless before you—I’d move all the stars for you, if that’s what you wanted. All you’d have to do is ask, and I would work my whole lives to lay the universe at your feet.”

 _Is that the other part of why he likes to see me suffer, as revenge for making him vulnerable? It would be very like him,_ Theta thinks, fond and a little sad. He wishes Koschei didn’t have so many issues, but what’s he going to do about it but help where he can?

Aloud, he replies, “It wouldn’t take your whole lives to take over the universe—you could do it in two or three, if you really put your mind to it. And anyway, I don’t want it. If I did, though, I wouldn’t make you conquer it all by yourself. We’d do it together.”

Koschei looks back up at him with a smile, delighted by the suggestion, just as Theta had known he would be. “Oh, we would be spectacular, wouldn’t we? Taking all of known space by storm, the two of us, kings of all civilization? Our reign would be glorious, and the universe would be better off with us as leaders.”

“Perhaps we’d better settle for conquering Gallifrey first.”

“Perhaps,” Koschei admits.

“And before that, we’d probably best focus on getting through spring exams.”

“What, you want to get back to studying?” Koschei asks disbelievingly.

“No, I want to get back to fucking. Then we can get back to studying. Later. Maybe.” All this discussion has muted his enthusiasm to a degree, but since a lot of it has involved Koschei declaring his love in his own strange, dear way, it hasn’t been all that muted.

“I am going to fuck you in the Presidential suite someday, though,” Koschei promises thoughtfully.

Theta laughs and adds, “And on the President’s desk. Though it might be the other way ‘round—what if I’m President? You can’t bugger the Lord President over his own desk.”

Koschei gives him an unimpressed look and says, “Don’t be ridiculous, you’d hate being President. I thought we agreed that I’d take the public positions of power and you’d be my advisor? But anyway, I don’t think that’s a rule. I’d let you do me over the desk, if I was President.”

“That’s because you’re perverted.”

“Well, yes. And speaking of that, am I to take it that I’m encouraged to indulge our complimentary predilections, for the remainder of the day, at least?”

Despite the euphemistic phrasing, the idea of it gives Theta a thrill. He licks his lips and nods. 

Koschei moves in for a kiss, but Theta draws back and says, “Look, just… stop if I say, alright?” 

“Of course, my dear. There’s no point if you aren’t willing.”

“And don’t take this the wrong way, but I want to say that just because I might get off on the idea of submitting to you doesn’t mean I’m going to do it all the time. You know you can be a bit… dictatorial, so just try to keep it restricted to the bedroom, metaphorically speaking?” 

Koschei frowns, looking a little offended, and then shrugs as if to say ‘fair enough.’ He arches an eyebrow and answers, “Let me see if I’ve got this right. No to ‘Run and fetch me that isodynamic capacitor from the lab’ and yes to ‘Theta, take off your clothes and get on the bed?’”

Theta flushes a little at the idea of being given such a command. Oh, yes, that’s much better than being ordered to fetch and carry things.

Picking up on the reaction, Koschei leans in a little closer and continues, “Less ‘get me a coffee’ and more ‘Spread your legs nice and wide?’”

Theta nods, shifting restlessly, trapped between Koschei’s thighs. Even though the command wasn’t in earnest, his body still wants to obey. He really has a problem when it comes to Koschei’s voice—just one whispered comment in the middle of a lecture, and Theta suddenly finds himself trying to rearrange his robes so that no one can see how hard he is under his desk.

“Alright, my dear. I think I’ve got it. So, I shouldn’t tell you to clean up my messes, but I should…”

Koschei’s eyes drop to Theta’s mouth, and he leans in, almost close enough to kiss. “Tell you to get on your knees so I can fuck your pretty mouth?”

If Theta hadn’t already been on the floor, his aforementioned knees would have gone quite wobbly at that. He wants that, stomach twisting up in knots as he imagines it—Koschei’s hands in his hair, Koschei’s cock down his throat, Koschei muttering filthy praise as he uses Theta for his own pleasure.

He feels Koschei’s mouth curve into a smile against his lips like he knows what Theta is picturing, and maybe he does. It’s not like it’s hard to guess, and it’s not like he’s trying to keep Koschei out of his head.

The other boy leans forward that last half-inch and closes the gap between them, meeting him in a lush, messy kiss, one arm wrapped around his back to bear him back to the carpet. He wraps his arms around his lover, pulling him down, holding them tight together as they devour each other. Theta bucks underneath him, needing friction, needing Koschei pressed against him. 

He gets it, too, finally, and he groans into the kiss as Koschei shifts and grinds down against him, lets Theta feel how hard he is. He’s heavy in this position, but Theta likes it, the weight of him, the pressure.

There are teeth on his lip. They bite down and Theta writhes, trapped by Koschei’s thighs on either side of him, helpless and helplessly aroused. He feels hot all over, and it’s so frustrating that he can’t wrap his legs around Koschei’s hips in this position. He wants to pull him in, hold him as close as he can, wants to open for him. He needs it, need skin under his hands, needs Koschei in him.

His lover pulls back and looks down at him, heavy-lidded and swollen-mouthed. His fingers trail down the side of Theta’s face in a long, warm caress until his hand comes to rest at the base of his throat. It’s found its way there before and Theta has always liked the weight of it, but this is the first time that he consciously reads the threat in the gesture, and suddenly, he wants it; _Rassilon,_ does he ever want it. Wants Koschei to make good on the threat, wants him to _squeeze_ , wants to feel that hand wrapped tight around his throat, pinning him to the floor while Koschei fucks him.

He presses up into the touch, eyes closing, reveling in the way the pressure makes breathing just that little bit harder. It’s a visceral kind of thrill, his body telling him he should be afraid even as his mind knows that this is his safest person. Is it that contrast that’s doing it for him? Or is it just the adrenaline-sharp edge of the pseudo-fear itself? Theta always has enjoyed a bit of danger in his life, he supposes. Whatever it is, it’s good; it is _so_ fucking good. 

Koschei’s wicked smile falters and a low, needy little noise slips out of him as he watches Theta press into his hand with what must be obvious pleasure. Theta looks up at him and arches his neck, baring his throat further, trying to tempt Koschei into doing what they both want.

But there’s only a here’s a brief squeeze, the promise of _later_ , and Koschei’s hand is gone, joining its fellow in unbuttoning first his robes and then the high-necked under-tunic that he’d already half unbuttoned earlier. School robes, tunics, and leggings are the worst, because you can’t get out of all of it while lying down—Koschei stands and pulls him to his feet, and together they manage to get out of the tremendous masses of fabric they are expected to wear.

The person he loves most in all the worlds is standing there looking so very naked—for all confidence, there’s always something vulnerable about him without his clothes, and Theta can’t help but reach for him, curling a hand around his side and pulling him close. He comes willingly and _oh_ , oh, it’s so _good_ , just like always.

Koschei’s skin is smooth and warm under his hands, his chest solid and familiar where they press together. Just touching him like this, skin to skin, pressed tight all over, feels so stupidly good. He can’t get enough, can never get enough, and he holds tight, hands digging in to Koschei’s waist. Even that is good—he’s soft in a way Theta isn’t, and though Koschei insists that it’s the last lingering traces of baby fat, Theta knows that it’s really the result of his insatiable sweet tooth. He finds it utterly charming.

They end up back on the couch, Koschei sitting with Theta straddling his lap. They’re kissing again even though both of their mouths (especially Theta’s) are already bruised. It seems so silly, and as gestures of affection go, it’s a classless one, especially by Time Lord standards, but sometimes it feels like he can’t bear it when their lips aren’t touching, when they aren’t breathing the same air. There’s something new about this kiss, though, some change in the proprietary way Koschei’s hands wind into the back of his hair and press flat between his shoulder blades. Something in the way Theta curves into him, submission in the cant of his hips and his fingertips on Koschei’s face.

It isn’t a surprise when he feels Koschei’s fingernails rake down the center of his back—it makes him gasp, back arching, but it doesn’t feel strange or shocking, though it certainly does hurt. He does it again, slowly, both hands this time, ten lines of sweet fire scoring his skin, and just that has Theta grinding down on him, panting against his mouth until he is tugged off to one side by the hair, soft lips on his neck. 

He was expecting teeth, and the gentle, sucking warmth of Koschei’s mouth sends him reeling, holding on to the other boy’s shoulders for dear life. His back tingles hotly where Koschei scratched it, and his cock is so hard that it aches, pressed against Koschei’s belly. Only when he no longer expects it does Koschei bite down, and the shock of it makes him jerk and cry out. And _Rassilon_ , he can feel how much that does it for Koschei, the boundaries between them blurred by all this skin contact and a bond years in the making. 

“You really do love this,” Theta murmurs, taken aback by the deep, violent pulse of Koschei’s desire. There’s lust, hot and familiar, but under that there’s something else, rhythmic and urgent and alien. Theta has felt it before, but never this close to the surface, never so immediate and undeniable. He didn’t quite realize…

“Yes,” Koschei replies, meeting his eyes, his own dark, unapologetic and unfathomable. 

“I feel like I— _ah!_ —should be concerned about that,” he mutters vaguely, knowing he ought to try to think, even though Koschei’s thumb is rubbing circles on his hip, edging closer to his cock, and he really doesn’t want to pull himself together enough to try.

“You are,” Koschei says, a hint of a smile playing about his lips. Theta can feel the red-tinged roil of his satisfaction and under that, way down deep, a hint of regret. “Just a little. I can feel it—you’re a little afraid of me, now.”

Theta licks his lips, unsure. “You like that, too.”

“Yes.” _Yes, and no._

A moment passes, and then Koschei blinks and Theta feels him mentally shake himself. “Do you want to stop? Or do it like normal?”

And with that, the spell is broken and his fear dissipates. He has always known that Koschei is a little mad, and well, that’s just fine, because by everyone else’s standards, he is, too. This has only been further demonstrated by today’s events. He thinks briefly of _Alice in Wonderland._

The thought is, apparently, clear enough for Koschei to read, and he tucks his face into the crook of Theta’s neck and mutters, “We’re all mad here, eh, Thete?” 

Theta pets his lover’s hair, sighs, “Yeah, Kosch, I think we are.” 

They pass another moment in silence, but this time it’s warm rather than strange. Koschei waits, knowing Theta has something else to say.

“Just,” he begins, then breaks off, swallowing hard. “Just tell me you can handle this. Tell me you can handle this and I’ll believe you.” 

Koschei pulls back and looks at him seriously. “What do you mean?”

“Tell me you won’t get carried away.”

Koschei looks away, and Theta feels a quickly-hidden rush of shame. Theta knows he has seen deeper than the other boy he would like, to even suspect that he would. But there’s a hard swell of determination right on its heels, and Theta can feel the truth of it when he says, “I promise I won’t. Tell me to stop and I will.” 

“Good,” Theta says, satisfied. Koschei’s strength of will is a force to be reckoned with, that he knows for sure. Whatever darkness is in him, he’ll hold it at bay for the sake of what they have together.

Still not meeting Theta’s eyes, Koschei asks, “How can you just… be okay with me, when I’m like this? When there’s a part of me that…” 

Theta hears the rest of the sentence, clear as dome-glass, even though it isn’t spoken aloud. _A part of me that wants to see you broken and bloody._

“I trust you, that’s how. It’s not like it’s news to me that your mind has more dark corners than the old stacks in the Terulionormaterdiferial Library—I’ve been in there after all. Your mind, I mean, not the library.” He pauses, smiling ruefully, then adds, “Advisable or not, I love you, Kosch. Even your… weird bits.” 

Koschei huffs in amusement, which is exactly what Theta was aiming for. “I love your weird bits, too.” He sighs and adds, “You’re an absolute hopeless romantic, you know that, right?”

“I know. But so are you, when it really comes down to it.”

Koschei smiles at him, and for once there’s nothing smug or wicked about it. It warms Theta down to his toes. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am.”

They sit there, gazing into each other’s eyes like complete idiots for all of thirty seconds, until Theta shifts restlessly and says, “So, are we gonna do this, or what? If we’re just going to sit here, I’m at least going to put my tunic on. It’s a bit drafty in here, you know.”

The remark has its intended effect. 

“Unacceptable,” Koschei proclaims, grinning as he holds onto Theta and half-stands, swinging him around to lay him out on the couch. “We’re doing this.”

Theta grins back. It must look silly because he’s so tall and gangly, but he kind of loves it it when Koschei manhandles him like that. “Can you believe that we, of all people, have gotten distracted from having sex by the need to have a serious conversation, not once but _twice_? _”_

“Very unacceptable,” Koschei agrees, propped up on hands and knees above him. “No more conversation. I don’t want to hear you speak unless it’s my name, or ‘harder’, or ‘fuck me,’ or the like. Or, I suppose, if you want to, ‘stop.’”

Theta blinks up at him seriously and mimes zipping his mouth shut. 

Koschei rolls his eyes and bends to kiss him, but his efforts are in vain because Theta keeps his lips pressed resolutely together. They’re zipped shut, after all. Koschei groans in irritation and gives him a deeply unamused look that has Theta’s chest shaking, fighting laughter. It’s not that funny, but he gets like this sometimes, giddy and silly off the sheer stupid amount of oxytocin running through his system when they’re together.

The other boy cocks his head, thinking, but he doesn’t give in and ‘unzip’ Theta’s lips like he expected. Instead, his eyes narrow and he fixes Theta with That Look. Apparently, he’s going to take this as a challenge. Oh dear. Well, it’s not like Theta won’t enjoy losing.

“Theta, you do realize that I built that sonic dampening field for my room just because you’re so noisy? This is not a game you can win.”

Theta looks up at him with wide, guileless eyes and shrugs. 

“Fine then,” Koschei says, climbing off him. “Have it your way.” 

Then Koschei’s hands are on him and he fights back a yelp of surprise as he finds himself abruptly tugged sideways, so that he’s half-lying on the couch, legs dangling off the edge, Koschei kneeling between them with his hands on the insides of Theta’s thighs, pushing them up and apart. _Oh no_ , Theta thinks, equal parts dismay and anticipation. He’s going to lose even faster than he thought.

That dark head ducks down and Theta whimpers as Koschei nips lightly at the inside of his thigh, but he manages to keep his mouth shut. He hadn’t planned for this at all, but retrospect he should have because he’s an absolute slut for it, a fact which Koschei knows well. He’s not going to be able to keep quiet for more than a couple minutes—just being in this position has him feeling hot and restless, like he needs to talk just to relieve the nervous pressure. He’s so exposed, held open so Koschei can see everything, and it makes him feel… strange. 

Koschei kisses along the join of leg and torso, and maybe even more than his lips, it’s the prickly-soft touch of his beard against sensitive, unweathered skin that has him writhing. Tracing up and down the insides of his thighs, his mouth is so close to where Theta wants it, where he knows he’s ultimately going, that he can barely stand it. It’s as if the serious-conversation-break(s) had never happened—it’s only taken a few seconds of this for him to get back to being just as head-spinningly aroused as he was fifteen minutes ago.

Only, they did have those conversations, so now it’s even worse. Koschei scrapes his teeth lightly over Theta’s skin, nips so softly that it doesn’t hurt at all. It’s just enough to remind him that Koschei could bite if he wanted, just enough to keep that thought at the forefront of his mind, to keep him strung taut with anticipation. Oh, how he wants it. Can almost imagine it, the heat, the sting, the ache that would linger after Koschei’s mouth had moved on. 

The image of his own inner thighs covered in reddened tooth-prints and dark sucker-bite bruises pops into his head, and Theta shudders, imagining what it would be like to be so thoroughly yet secretly marked. He loves feeling the aftereffects of Koschei’s touch on him in any capacity, and the idea of being able to press a fingertip against one of the bites in the middle of the day and be reminded has him shifting restlessly under Koschei’s touch. He shoves the image Koschei-ward in hopes of inciting some more decisive action, but only gets an echoing thrum of satisfaction and another long string of deeply unsatisfying nibbles.

Minutes pass like this, and though Theta tries to relax into the sensations and just take them for what they are, the anticipation keeps him on edge. He’d thought he’d known Koschei’s plan, thought he was going to lick him out because it always makes him lose control over his voice, but maybe he’s just going to keep doing this until Theta goes insane. Rassilon, he hopes not. 

Or—oh, he’s moving up higher now, brushing feather-light kisses along the underside of Theta’s cock, and yes, that’s good, that’s really good—maybe he’s going to suck it? That would be brilliant; that would be _fantastic._ That would probably be the best thing that ever happened in his life. He half-wants to just grab Koschei and just shove him on there; all power dynamics aside, he’s dying here. Either that or beg for it, but he’d initiated this stupid challenge and he’s hardly going to back down without at least trying. It’s such a struggle to keep the words from spilling out, though; all _please, Koschei, please,_ and its such a clear thought that he thinks Koschei hears it anyway.

Heard or not, his pleas go unanswered. Koschei moves on, and Theta throws his head back and tries not to groan as that all-too-clever tongue traces down the center line of his sac. Here, it’s all gentle pressure and soft suction and he’s not just trying to get Theta to open his mouth at this point, he’s trying to get him to beg for more, he must be. Now that Theta’s put the idea into his head, it would be just like Koschei to decide he needs to hear it out loud.  He never should have engaged Koschei’s competitive side—what had he been thinking?

He wants to fold, really he does, especially since he knows defeat is inevitable, but he has a competitive side, too, and it won’t let him. He bites his lip as Koschei’s hands leave the backs of his thighs and go lower, spreading him— _fuck_ —spreading him open, thumbs digging in on either side of his hole. Koschei’s mouth hovers over where he wants it so Theta can feel the heat and humidity of his breath, and he abruptly tips over the limits of his self-control and demands, “Just get on with it!”

Koschei pops up, looking delighted, and Theta, now free to vocalize, groans in absolute frustration. The smug time-weevil between his thighs grins and says, “Get on with what, my dear? And anyway, is that how you ask for what you want?” 

Getting him to say what he wants might be an effective tactic to embarrass him any other time, as he doesn’t delight in making filthy remarks the way Koschei does, but he’s been hard for absolutely ages, he’s already in the most compromising possible position, and he’s way past the point where he cares for his dignity. He demands, “Eat me out, Kosch! I’ve had enough teasing, damn you.” 

Koschei noses along the crease of his thigh, and while Theta can feel his demands turning to babbling, to begging, he’s past the point of caring about his pride, too. “Fuck, man, please! Let me feel your tongue, your lips, it’d be so good, you’re always so good, please, _please,_ Koschei, please…”

Koschei’s breath punches out of him with an audible rush, and he makes a strangled sound before he disappears again, only the top of his dark head visible as his tongue finally, finally makes contact with Theta’s arse in a long, slow lick. It’s soft and wet and just exactly what he wanted—he’d almost died of embarrassment and shock the first time Koschei had tried this, but lately he’d come to crave it even more than Koschei’s mouth on his cock.

Fortunately, the feeling seems to be mutual. That’s partly why it’s so good—Koschei does this like he loves it, like he’s starving for it, hot and relentless. The way he seals his mouth tight to Theta’s skin and sucks as he slips his tongue inside has Theta collapsed bonelessly against the couch, head lolling back, eyes closed, mouth open. The slick, sinuous curl of it is almost too good to be real, and the way he can feel Koschei’s hungry little noises as he nuzzles in closer, tries to get deeper, drives him absolutely crazy. 

He’s being loud, he knows—fortunately, the sound-dampener has a duplicate here, too, since they spend at least as much time misusing this study, distracted by each other’s skin, as they do actually studying in it. It’s too hard to try to keep quiet when Koschei is holding him open, licking him wet and messy, making his body loose and ready, fucking him with his tongue. He wants it to go on forever, but at the same time, he can’t take much more of this. He’s been too keyed-up for too long, and he’s getting restless for the feel of Koschei’s body pressed tight to his. His cock is aching, hard and dripping, and just Koschei’s tongue inside him isn’t enough anymore.

Theta lets his need pour out of his skin and across the fuzzy, permeable boundary between them. He hears Koschei moan against him, loud and unselfconscious, feels the buzz of the sound against his skin, as the full force of it hits him. The other boy pulls back, straightening to look up at him, his red, wet mouth open and his impossibly dark eyes wide, almost shocked by the sheer quantity of Theta’s desire. His hair is all no longer even nominally slicked back, and he’s flushed all down his chest. The sight of him steals Theta’s breath. It fills him with so much love and so much want that it’s a wonder he can contain it all, that he doesn’t fly apart at the seams. He wonders if this is what it will feel like when he regenerates.

He lets Koschei feel that, too, and they crash together in a kiss. It’s messy and ravenous and full of little wordless sounds, like if they just press themselves tight enough together, they can fit under each other’s skin. It almost works—they’re a hair’s breadth from full psychic apposition.

It would be so easy to wrap himself in the familiar strands of Koschei’s mind, but he holds himself back. They’ve never managed to have proper sex with their minds fully entwined—it’s brilliant, but only for a few seconds. There’s got to be some trick to processing the doubled sensory input, and they’ll figure it out eventually, but this isn’t the time. He’ll settle for an imperfect union if it means he gets to feel Koschei inside him. Koschei, he knows, agrees. This is an attitude for heathens, for primitives or at least for the lower classes, but theirs is a love that the lofty ideals of the Time Lords will never fully describe. 

Koschei leans over and yanks the drawer of the couch’s end table open, fumbling around for the vial of Super Slippery No. 17, the most successful product of Theta’s personal mission to create the universe’s best sexual lubricant. (No. 8 was the worst, as it produced a deeply distressing near-frictionless effect and took an alarmingly powerful solvent to remove. Koschei hadn’t let him top again for nearly two months after that debacle, even though _he_ wasn’t the one who had grabbed the stuff off the lab table and had it up his arse before it had been adequately tested.)

They come back together in another kiss, and it’s so stupid that each one is just as good as the last, if not better. Kissing ought to lose its appeal after a while, but they’ve been doing it for years, and the way Koschei flicks the tip of his tongue against Theta’s bottom lip still makes a wave of heat wash over him every single time. They lose themselves in the give-and-take of it for a long moment, there with Theta perched on the edge of the couch and Koschei kneeling upright in the open vee of his legs, until Theta breaks the kiss to lie back against the cushions, lifting one knee and spreading his legs shamelessly wide, smiling wickedly at the hungry way Koschei watches him do it.

A moment later when Koschei slips two fingers inside him, Theta closes his eyes and sighs in satisfaction. The stretch is familiar and good, and he’s already open enough that it doesn’t hurt. Koschei’s lips are back on the inside of his thigh, though, and this time he isn’t teasing—he bites down, hard enough to bruise, and the sudden shock of pain makes Theta jerk and gasp. His hand twitches towards his cock, wanting to relieve some of the pressure, but Koschei catches it before it gets very far, pinning it to the couch with his own.

Koschei bites him again, and again, and again, and by the time there’s a chain of marks from hip to knee, Theta feels like he’s going to come out of his skin. He’s too turned on to speak; he can’t do anything but lie there and take it as Koschei fingers him expertly, opening and pleasuring him all at once while he kisses his way back up the line, making each bite sting anew. 

Koschei shifts up to kiss him once more, brief and hard, as he withdraws his fingers. Their lips are still touching when he murmurs, “Need to fuck you now. Let me have you?”

“You always have me, _always_ ,” Theta whispers, enraptured. 

He feels that sentiment returned and more, feels Koschei’s love curl around him like some huge cat, soft and warm and powerful, the kind of beast that’s only safe because it chooses to be. There is no appropriate response but wonder, and Theta feels it down to his bones.

This position is a familiar one, and he wraps his legs around the small of Koschei’s back to pull him in even as the other boy slicks some more of No. 17 over his cock before he glances down to line them up. He looks back up, though, as soon as he can, his eyes on Theta’s face as he pushes inside in a long, slow, steady glide.

Koschei watches him as Theta pants through the ever-overwhelming stretch and he watches back, his eyes so caught by that heavy-lidded gaze that he can’t even blink. Then Koschei’s hips are flush with his and Theta pulls him down, holds him tight, chest to chest, as close as they can physically get, wound around each other in every way. Their minds wind around each other, too, staying short of that last step, two distinct identities, but close, so close, catching fragments and flashes from each other. They don’t speak, don’t exchange information, and there’s none of the psychic pyrotechnics that Koschei does so well when he’s in an experimental mood—it’s just touch, just closeness, just the raw, natural empathy native to all Gallifreyans, even the ones who pretend that they’re above it. 

Then Koschei draws back, props himself up on his hands, and thrusts in, hard. It makes Theta arch and cry out, all his finer feelings obliterated by sensation as Koschei sets to fucking him just the way they both like best, deep and steady and just this side of too rough. There’s nothing for him to do in this position but tip his hips up and take it, and so he does, staring up at Koschei with wide, pleasure-shocked eyes as he is thoroughly and completely taken. 

His lover is magnificent like this—Koschei isn’t in the habit of giving in to anyone or anything, but he gives himself up to his own pleasure with abandon, letting it ride him like a vortex-spirit rides a Tel’kari mystic, lets it make his body dance to its tune, retaining only enough control to make sure he pleases Theta as well as he pleases himself. It’s Theta’s favorite rush, the impossible, addicting weight of Koschei’s entire mind focused on him, on them, on this moment. Normally, the inside of Koschei’s head feels intricate and precise, wheels within wheels of clockwork labyrinth ticking relentlessly along, but like this, all ongoing schemes are halted by the immediacy of Theta’s body hot and tight around him, and he can’t hear the ticking over their grunts and cries of pleasure and the deafening rush of blood in his ears.

Theta presses into that feeling, rolls around on it like it’s a fine fur, tries to pull it into his own mind and make some portion of it his own. He’s just as much of an hedonist as Koschei, but true abandon doesn’t come naturally to him. Even now, he’s thinking, back-burner thoughts whirling away, even now, he can’t help trying to put his sensations into words, picking at them curiously, because he can’t quite convince himself that there are things that can only be understood non-linguistically.

It’s so good, Koschei inside him, all pressure and fullness and _right there, right there, yes,_ but still he thinks of nerves firing and neurotransmitters releasing, of the evolutionary necessity of a desire for sex and the evolutionary accident of _that spot right there_ , of all the love poems Koschei’s eyes make him recall. He invents similes in five languages to try to explicate the aesthetic qualities of Koschei’s lips and considers then discards a hundred metaphors that fail to describe the feeling of overwhelming sweetness that seems—illogically, he knows—to reside in this space between his hearts. He weighs the pros and cons of jerking himself off, or trying to, since there’s an 87% probability that Koschei won’t let him, and decides against it for now.

Then Koschei leans down and nuzzles at the side of his neck, makes Theta turn his head to give him better access to the delicate skin just beneath his ear and bites. His thoughts fracture and fall away as the sensation sparkles through him, the indefinable pleasure-pain too all-consuming to allow the background susurration of his thoughts to continue. He whimpers and clings to Koschei as it all comes into focus, sharp-edged and devastating—not just the pain of the bite, but the worn fabric of the couch against his back, the sweat-sticky rub of skin on skin, the humid breath on the side of his neck, the soft tangle of Koschei’s curls under Theta’s left hand.

He does it again, and it’s too much, it’s perfect; Koschei’s cock feels so very, very hard inside him and he’s so hot, he’s burning up and he never wants it to stop. Koschei sucks a bruise onto the side of his neck and distantly, Theta hears himself moan—it’s helpless, shameless; it’s slutty and far too loud. The feeling makes his head spin, like he’s drunk, like he’s crazy, but he doesn’t have the mental space to make those comparisons, doesn’t have the mental space to do anything, all the thoughts in his head crowded out by pleasure and pain and huge weight of Koschei’s one-track mind bearing down on him, holding him in place.

“Yes,” he whispers brokenly, fingertips on his lover’s face, staring into those drowning-dark eyes. “Koschei, _yes_.”

“Mm,” Koschei agrees, and kisses him, messy and delighted and, as always, ravenous.

Theta kisses him back just as wantonly and thinks that this might be the best kiss he’s ever had, except maybe that one time in the broom closet, or that time at the dance club in the lower city, and—

Koschei’s hand slides up into his hair and pulls, and Theta forgets his incipient top ten best kisses ever list. All there is is now, Koschei on top of him, Koschei inside him, Koschei fucking him so exactly right. The pain in his scalp has him flying high even as it grounds him—he can’t think of anything beyond the places where their bodies are touching, beyond how good this feels, beyond his pleasure and need and Koschei, Koschei, _Koschei_. It’s so good he could scream, and honestly he’s not that far from it, long, high, keening noises spilling out of his mouth to fill the small room. Koschei’s not quiet, either; his breathing is labored from exertion and pleasure, and almost every exhale is a groan that sounds like it’s being wrenched up from the very core of him.

Koschei’s eyes flick down to his neck, to the red marks and bruises there, and Theta feels the sharp spike of excitement that stabs through Koschei at the sight of it, feels it in his mind and in the way his lover’s steady rhythm falters just a bit, hips stuttering. Theta preens under the attention, tipping his head back and to the side, showing off what the other boy has done to him. Koschei reaches to touch, fingertips pressing into the bites while the pad of his thumb toys with Theta’s lip. 

Except Theta can’t really appreciate either of those things, because— _Oh, Rassilon,_ he thinks, _oh, fuck_ —Koschei’s hand is so close to his throat. He wants it; Goddesses, but he wants it, can’t think of anything but how it would feel, that weight, that pressure, that gene-deep bodily fear. Koschei must feel his sudden desperation because he stills and looks up sharply to meet Theta’s eyes, his own wide with something like shock. They stare at each other like that as Theta bites his lip, reaches up to take Koschei by the wrist and lead to him where he wants.

There’s an awed, shaky exhale above him and then Koschei tightens his grip. Theta inhales, or tries to, but he can only get a little air, and there it is, the creeping edge of panic, and he wants to cry out, wants to moan, but he can’t. There’s a prickling heat in his face and a sense of pressure, a kick of adrenaline, a desire to struggle, his body crying out almost immediately for oxygen. 

Koschei just watches him, watches with the intent stillness of a predator, apparently committing the image before him to memory. He feels the weight of Koschei’s eyes on him like another pleasure, like another pain, intolerable and perfect. He’s coming wholly unglued, undone, broken down into component parts, and he loves that Koschei’s watching him fall.

Koschei leans down and kisses him softly on the mouth. It’s gentle, almost sweet, except that Theta can feel the dark satisfaction rolling off him in waves. Then, his hips move once. It’s slow, almost lazy—he’s taking his time now, savoring this, and Theta has had entirely enough of it.

 _Fuck me!_ he demands, shoving the thought at Koschei as hard as he can, not bothering to keep the edge of hypnotic compulsion off the command. His lover is the stronger psychic by far; he can resist it if he wants. _Right now!_

He flings his desperation at Koschei full-force, aware that his mental voice is a close to a shriek. He’s never needed anything more in his life, and he can feel tears of frustration forming at the corners of his eyes as Koschei continues with his slow, sinuous roll: _fuck me now, now, now, hard, fast, while you choke me, right now, Koschei, please!_

Koschei gasps and slams into him, utterly overcome, fucking him with short, sharp thrusts that jar his whole body, pressing him up tighter against the hand at his throat, cutting off what little air he has. His hearts feel like they might beat right out of his chest, and his back bows as he starts to struggle unconsciously. He needs to breathe, needs to come, needs to breathe, needs to come, it’s all he can think, all he can feel, this incredible tension winding tighter and tighter. 

His eyes are closed, so it’s a shock when Koschei’s other hand closes around his cock, jerking him quick and slick and hard. It’s perfect, and Theta’s right there, right on the edge, he’s going to come, he’s going to fly apart, but he’s stuck there, suspended at the peak, and nothing should feel this good for this long, he should be coming, he should be but he isn’t, and he cannot withstand this— _please-please-please-let me-let me-let me_ — 

Then the hand at his throat is gone and oxygen floods into his body, lighting his brain up with pleasure and relief and release and he’s coming, sobbing as he tries to breathe and tries to scream out his pleasure all at once. It feels like it goes on forever, waves upon waves, like each time the blinding pleasure begins to ebb away it’s pushed up higher by the unrelenting snap-snap-snap-snap of Koschei’s hips.

When his rhythm finally breaks and he collapses onto Theta’s chest, shuddering helplessly, Theta feels a sudden warmth inside his body and a blast of pleasure screaming out from Koschei’s skin. _Yes,_ he thinks deliriously, _Koschei, yes_ —there’s nothing more viscerally satisfying in all the world than this feeling. 

It’s dirty and messy and primitive, _they’re_ dirty and messy and primitive, but he loves it. He loves that they can reduce each other to this, to their very simplest pieces, and he loves that those pieces fit together in the way that living things have since long before Gallifreyan life evolved into its current form. Theta is half-stunned in the aftermath of pleasure, but still he thinks of all the living creatures that have ever had their lover come inside them and thought, _yes, yes, you’re mine, your DNA is inside of me._ In this moment, he feels a kinship with all of them that ever were and ever will be, and knows a profound love for any universe that contains such everyday wonders.

They’re objectively disgusting, covered in sweat and spit and come, and Koschei is heavy on top of him with his face all scrunched up and his hair damp with sweat, thoroughly mussed from Theta’s hands. Theta looks at him and feels a strange, swirling lightness rising up in his chest, taking away his newly-regained breath. Koschei is a mess; his mouth is so red and bruised as it begins to turn up at the corners in a dopey smile and he’s still panting, his fair skin gone all red and blotchy from heat and exertion. He’s so beautiful that it makes Theta ache.

He loves him. He loves him so much he can’t possibly contain it, and so he reaches out with hands that tremble like the legs of something new-born and takes Koschei’s face between them, kisses him to pour some of that impossible feeling into his mouth and share the taste of it between them. He’s not very coordinated and neither is Koschei, so the kiss is sloppy and too wet and broken frequently for snatches of air. It’s perfect, and Theta identifies the feeling between his hearts as joy. The poems all say that joy is like a sunbeam, but Theta’s joy nothing so quiet—it’s the whole damn star, a great blue hypergiant of a star still whirling into being, fusing atoms into different atoms at 40,000 degrees.

He feels very strange. Strange, and charmed. He laughs at his own joke, laughs against Koschei’s lips with sheer delight, and laughs some more when his lover pulls back to look at him with sudden concern.

“Are you okay?” Koschei asks, and Theta tries to answer, but his throat is tight in a way that has nothing to do with the fact that Koschei’s hand had been around it a minute ago. 

He nods, and Koschei touches his cheek. Only then does Theta realize that his face is wet. He is, apparently, crying.

More urgently, Koschei repeats, “Theta, are you okay?”

Theta flings the edge of his newborn star’s accretion disk in Koschei’s direction by way of answer, and the other boy reels, left gasping by the force of it, by the burn of the energy thrown off by the combination of their nuclei.

He feels Koschei’s worry at his nonsensical response and it sobers him enough that he regains his capacity for speech and says, “Yeah, Kosch.”

He coughs, clears his throat, and continues, voice rough, “Yeah. I’m okay. I’m okayer than okay. I’m the okayest. “

Koschei looks at him, still concerned that he has broken his friend. So, he goes on, “In fact, I’m amazing. No, you’re amazing. We’re both amazing, and that— _that,_ Koschei, that was _amazing._ I am, quite frankly, amazed.”

He’s not doing the most convincing job of seeming coherent, he knows, but it must be enough because Koschei smiles, relieved, and says, “Yeah. Me too.”

He places gentle fingertips at Theta’s temple and there it is, the sunbeam he thought of earlier, quiet and sweet, flowing over him like water and leaving a sense of peace in its wake. It’s so rare to feel contentment from Koschei, who is always hungry for the next achievement, the next big scheme. There’s something that drives Koschei ever forward, but it seems that just for the moment, he’s happy where he is. 

Except, Theta notices, picking it up from his sprawled-open mind, that he has a cramp in his leg and he’s starting to feel distinctly sticky. So, he unlocks his ankles from behind Koschei’s back and lets him draw back, both of them shuddering as he pulls out. 

Theta exerts a tremendous degree of effort to get himself rightway-round on the couch as Koschei goes off to do… something. When he returns, he’s got a glass of water that he bids Theta drink, and once he does, he finds himself being cleaned off with a damp cloth that Koschei has produced from somewhere. 

He disappears again, and while Theta knows that he ought to get up and go clean up further, to save the poor couch the indignity of being leaked upon if nothing else, he is too comfortable to move, and anyway, he would prefer to carry a bit of Koschei around inside his body for a while longer. 

He drifts for a long moment, noticing that his throat is a little sore, and he can feel bruises forming on various parts of his body. He wriggles contentedly, delighting in the sensation, and then Koschei returns with—excellent!—a blanket, which he first lays over Theta and then climbs underneath. It’s a tight fit, the two of them stretched out on the couch, but Koschei curls around him like some sort of covetous dragon atop his horde and no one is in immediate danger of falling off.

And so they lay there, basking in one another’s presence, pleasantly warm, their minds still half-entwined so that their happiness flows back and forth between in a soft, easy loop. After a long, wonderful while, they sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Theta sleeps, and the Doctor wakes. Wistfulness is a feeling that she tries not to indulge, but with Theta’s joy and devotion to a love that’s been so lost for so long still dancing across her consciousness, she can’t help it. She’ll see him again, won’t she? Her Koschei? She’s almost certain that the Master is still out there, somewhere, somehow, somewhen, some _whom_ , but Koschei… She can’t help but believe that he’s out there, too, buried under layers of hate and rage and desperation, but still present. Maybe it’s only hope, maybe it’s wishful thinking, but if all her long years of wandering have taught her anything, it’s that sometimes hope is enough.

Does Missy, or whoever the Master has become if he’s regenerated, dream of those days too? Does she (or he) feel wistful, too? Does she remember how brightly the two of them burned? The stupid, blind, uncontrollable love they shared?

Of course she does. She probably tries not to, or maybe she wallows in the memories like the self-indulgent creature she always has been. Yes, that’s probably it—of the two of them, Missy has always kept the faith better. The Doctor has tried again and again to cut her love from her hearts, but the Master never has. She buried it instead, deep down in the core of her being, and let it rot there to nourish the roots of her hatred. The Doctor might worry that it has all been consumed, that it has decomposed entirely, but she knows better. She knows better because when she clears away the clutter and cobwebs, the ghosts and the grave-dust, there is still a star between her hearts.

It’s an old star, now, a bloated red giant burning dully in defiance of the creeping dark. For two Time Lords, though, rekindling the core of that dying star is well within the realm of possibility. It won’t be easy, but the good things never are. Until then, she’ll hope.

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written, so I hope I have indulged some of you, too. Please drop me a line and let me know if you enjoyed the story, or if you just, like, want to talk about these Time Lads.


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